ONE
Chagford, Devon, England
Gerald’s toes touched the emptiness of night air.
One last step from this height. A small thing. Yet large enough to claim all that was left of him.
An act of a desperate man, to be sure. But it was the only hope of salvation for his
family. A possible hope. A possible salvation from the terrors he had known.
Tomorrow, people will have polite public conversations. They will use words like troubled and burdened. They will debate his mental status and his unfortunate family.
“A respected man, he’d been,” they will say. “A leader in the community.”
But in the quiet corners of rooms, in the shadows of conversational nooks, they will whisper their minds. They will use words like nutter. They will say round the twist.
All that might be true. If not before, then now, certainly. But this was not a decision he’d taken lightly. It was the only sane decision left for him.
Beverly would protect their children from scandal. A good woman. A good wife. A good mother.
She would let go. She’d release her sorrows and hide her memories.
A cold wind ruffled his hair. A distant flash of lightning. A sign of rain, not far off.
You will see them in the rain.
The old man had been right. They always came when it rained.
The first, all those months ago, was barely seen in a periphery of vision. A child, perhaps a boy, not there at a second glance.
Too many hours on the job. Too much stress.
Comfort and relaxation was the cure for stress.
Comfort was grilled cheese or a familiar book. Relaxation was a hot shower or a nap in the recliner.
Choose one.
Choose all.
When it rained that following day, the child returned. It was a boy in torn jeans. Blossoms of rust-colored blood patterned his tee-shirt. Yet, the boy stood, unwavering, untouched by the rain.
He’d never mentioned what he’d seen to Beverly. She would’ve stood with him, at his side, staring into the rain. She wouldn’t have seen the boy.
She would have made him tea and urged him to rest. She would suggest a holiday in the country. Time away from work was the cure.
But there could be no cure when there was no illness.
It was best she didn’t know.
Others joined the boy over time. They would stand, just there, at the edge of the pines. Young women, sisters, hand in hand, cold dark eyes that searched his own.
A fat man. Very fat. Fatter than any man he’d ever seen.
And then, Cindy Millican.
Cindy had been so pretty in secondary school.
He’d once wanted to ask her to a dance. He’d imagined them together. He’d imagined kissing her. She would’ve kissed him back. But he’d been so shy.
At a ten-year reunion, she admitted she’d always liked him. They laughed about missed chances. They danced. She kissed him, just once. Out of sight of her husband. Out of sight of his wife. One kiss, for all the others they could have shared through the years.
He hadn’t seen her since, but her story had been in the paper. A driver crossed the median. A head-on collision.
He’d sent an arrangement with roses. The card read, You’ll be missed. And yet, there she stood with the others.
Each time closer.
Each time, there were more.
There was no denying the truth. They had come for him.
Another flash of lightning and the first rain drops fell.
A small step.
One last breath from the roof of his world. One last touch of wind in his hair.
A hope for salvation.
A lightness. Eyes closed. And the sound of rain.